


sempiternal

by 3rdgymbros



Category: Black Clover - Tabata Yuki (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Drama & Romance, F/M, Romance, eventual angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-12
Updated: 2020-09-14
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:54:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26422945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/3rdgymbros/pseuds/3rdgymbros
Summary: you love him, but it doesn't matter - the story is doomed to end.『 lemiel silvamillion clover x reader 』
Relationships: Lemiel Silvamillion Clover/Reader
Comments: 1
Kudos: 23





	1. how rare and beautiful

**Author's Note:**

> please please review!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Impulsively, you put your arms around him and for the first time, feel the softness of his lips against your own. Lemiel's lips meet yours, tentatively at first, then hungrily, and you think that you could melt into him because nothing has ever, ever felt so right.

It's been only a minute since you've stepped into the royal palace, but already you find yourself regretting your decision to return.

At your mother's direction, the maids pounce on you with a dizzying intensity that leaves you breathless. Cool water is sluiced over your body, and your skin soon turns shiny and pink from their efforts after a few minutes. No evidence of the mud and grime from the Forsaken Realm remains. You're pushed into a dress of silk, sewn with small pieces of aquamarine around the hem and neckline. Your hair is wrenched free from its tight braid and combed out to its full length. It takes focus and will for you to stay quietly in the chair as your hair is divided into sections, half of it twisted atop your head and held in place by carefully positioned pins. The rest is left free, tumbling down your back in glossy waves.

Once you're primped and polished to perfection, you walk through the familiar and yet unfamiliar castle, the long halls gleaming with candlelight. You want to squirm in your dress, which is odd given that you've worn such clothing all your life and haven't been bothered by it before today. The sweeping floor-length skirts compare unfavorably to the freedom of your old, shorter dresses made of wool and cotton. But something else scratches at your consciousness that is much more irksome than the gown. Walking behind your mother, you feel transfigured by the change in wardrobe, as if you've been snatched back by the life you've tried to leave behind.

* * *

You've planned to visit Lemiel as soon as you had returned, but the whole day is spent in the company of your mother and other court ladies, who have come to your family quarters to pay their respects.

The only daughter of the **[ LAST NAME ]** family, home at last. Everyone is anxious to catch a glimpse of you. The kitchens bustle with the preparation of elaborate dishes, gardeners are summoned to trim the trees in the gardens, seamstresses are called to measure out gowns, messengers and delivery boys are forever begging entry with gifts.

You find yourself at a loss, unable to understand the celebratory atmosphere in the house. You're hardly worth making a fuss over. Finally, with five minutes to yourself and an urgent need for a semblance of peace, you make your way down the hallway, hoping that you won't bump into any lords or ladies who wish to make your acquaintance. You only stop once to ask a black-haired girl for directions to his quarters, and though she stares doubtfully at you, she takes you there herself.

Deep in concentration as he is, Lemiel doesn't hear you when you push open the door, and you're given several seconds to stare at him. He looks just as you remember him; dainty features, wide crystalline eyes and a tousled head of blond hair. But you see the shadow of an apple-cheeked boy sitting next to you in the palace playroom, words flowing like water from his lips as he would select books to read to you. You see secret trips to the kitchen in the dead of night, long after everyone in the palace is asleep. You see bright green eyes inspecting your scraped knee and you hear his gentle voice telling you that everything's okay, to stop crying.

Then he turns in his seat, sees you hovering in the doorway, and his face lights up.

Already, it feels as though some part of you has come home.

* * *

Lemiel, you find, is still the same kind-hearted individual you knew as a child. It's easy to slip back into your old friendship with him. He's completely obsessed with crafting magic tools, and has a penchant for designing clothes as well. The nobles are divided on him; some of them are of the mind that he's a _genius_ , while others view him as an _oddity_ , the black sheep of the royal family. But there's no doubt that whoever marries Lemiel will be the queen, and the children born from their union will be next in line to inherit the throne.

The matter of your own marriage begins to obsess your mother. She won't let the matter rest until your grandmother and father both take up the refrain. "It's time you were married. You don't need any more education. You're not a man; you've no need to earn your own living." Once everyone in the household is of the same mind, your mother wastes no time in calling a matchmaker, who immediately suggests the eldest son of a prominent minister. Your protests are dismissed.

It's _unbearable_. You visit Lemiel's chambers to bring him his meals, which he often neglects in favor of research and work, and as time passes, you find yourself lingering there, finding his company preferable to that of your family's. He doesn't bring up any talk of marriage or politics, and it's as though you're slipping into a _softer_ , _simpler_ world when you're with him; one where status or magical ability doesn't determine a person's worth.

When you're in the family quarters, you lock yourself in your room and refuse to come out, anger and fear drumming through you. You throw yourself onto your bed and listen to your grandmother beat her small fists on the door.

"Do you want to be an old maid?" She screams.

"Yes!" You scream back. Outside the door your hear whispering and know that your mother, too, is there.

It's _unbearable_. It’s been four years since you'd departed for the Forsaken Realm, and your freedom has all but vanished as your life is squeezed into a box upon your timely return to court. You'd secretly hoped to be able to return to helping the commoners, who live from hand-to-mouth, struggling to feed and clothe themselves. You can't forget the gratitude in their eyes as they had thanked you for healing their sick and their elderly; it had left you feeling as though you had drunk down a mouthful of liquid sunshine. It comes as a shock to you, to have your plans so brusquely thwarted.

* * *

There have been efforts by your father, with the help of a great aunt and a matchmaker, to introduce you to a variety of wealthy young men. You sabotage these arrangements at every turn and soon gain a reputation as an unsuitable girl, much to your mother's ire. You hate the constant talk of marriage and feel that you have nothing in common with the groups of idle young people you're pushed to join, who while away their days with visits to the dressmaker, dancing, shopping and social chatter over the elaborate banquets of food.

You're sure that Lemiel, too, is being pushed into choosing a noblewoman to marry, even if he gives you no such indication. You can't deny that your heart splinters at the thought of Lemiel courting someone, but every time you want to bring the subject up, the words die in your throat. Each great family has a daughter they are willing to push into a possibly loveless marriage for an extra helping of favor, and although no concrete plans have yet been made, you're as aware as anyone that Lemiel is expected to produce an heir to the throne.

The empty hours are spent in the palace infirmary; in this regard, you finally have an outlet to direct your healing magic towards, even if most of the nobles come in to complain about superficial bruises and stomach aches from over-indulging in the overly rich food. You're soon touted as the best healer in the kingdom, a sure exaggeration of your abilities. You may have been blessed with an extra amount of mana, but your plant magic is as common as anything.

"Do you need some encourage-mint?" Lemiel asks, on a perfectly straight face, when you bring the subject up over a cup of morning coffee. "Because I'm rooting for you."

In spite of yourself, in spite of his horrible puns, you _laugh_ , and accidentally slop coffee down the front of your dress.

* * *

_"Plant Magic: Healing Balm of Gilead!"_

Lying your palms face down, you watch as leaves bloom upon the burned and ruined skin, an unfortunate result of an experiment gone wrong. Tetia had rushed to your room in a panic, babbling about how her brother was hurt; you hadn’t _thought_ , had just _acted_ , running with her down the hallways, panic shooting down your spine as your brain had conjured up the worst-case scenario.

Now, Lemiel doesn't so much as wince from the pain, and even though you've seen your own fair share of blood and gore, the memory of this particular injury will linger with you for a long time. You think that your pounding heart is loud enough that Lemiel can hear it. A pleasant smell rises from the plants, their leaves dulling and crumpling as soon as they've finished healing him. Before you can think of the consequences of your actions, you bend down and press a kiss to skin now pink and smooth and healthy.

"Be more careful next time," You murmur. Your cheeks feel far too hot for your liking; you can't look Lemiel in the eye. "Please."

Lemiel brushes at your cheeks with his fingers, encouraging you to look up. When you chance a peek at him through your lashes and the curtain of your hair, you find his expression fond. "I will. Thank you, **[ NAME ]**."

* * *

You toss and turn, unable to sleep. The softness of the mattress feels _wrong_ , after months of sleeping on hard pallets in the Forsaken Realm. You stare at the parchment shade of the lamp hanging above your bed. The long electric wire is lost in the darkness of the high vaulted ceiling. Caught by moonlight, the shade hovers luminously, disembodied as a ghost. Outside, the heavy splatter of rain can be heard. Lightning flashes and thunder, and your paralyzing fear of storms drives you to seek comfort from the only person you know is still awake at such a late hour.

"Lemiel?" You ask, quietly, hesitantly. There's something strangely intimate about him seeing you like this; with your feet bare and your hair down, dressed in only a simple nightgown.

He starts at the mention of his name, squinting blearily at you. " **[ NAME ]**? Is it morning already? Are you here with breakfast?"

"No, I just –"

A great clap of thunder echoes, cutting you off. The voiles covering the French doors sway a little, as the fierce winds find their way through minute cracks in the frame. You shiver, chilled to the bone, but find yourself unable to explain why you're here, and without a chaperone present.

"Oh." A frown mars his delicate features, deepening when the next roll of thunder makes you jump. "I understand now."

He extends a hand and you take it gratefully, the warmth of his skin chasing away the lingering chill and fear. You let him take you to bed; the covers are rumpled and strewn, but they smell like him, of old books and sunlight and sugar. Lemiel sits down gingerly on the edge of the bed, but you shake your head and pull him closer, curling into him and resting your head on his chest. You hold onto him like he's the only thing anchoring you to this world.

"I'm sorry. I just didn't want to be alone." You whisper. "I'm scared."

Lemiel hums thoughtfully. "I'll make you something."

"You don't have to." You shift slightly in his arms.

Lemiel is quietly insistent. "I want to."

* * *

True to his word, Lemiel gifts you with a magic tool of his own invention just two days later.

It's a box made of gold and glass, with an ornately carved ballerina on the lid. The magic stored within it allows it to play a jaunty, tinkling tune when the knob on the side is twisted; a press of a button causes the ballerina to glow with a soft, glowing radiance. It's plain to see that Lemiel has poured some of his own magic into your gift, and a strange stirring tickles your chest, spreading through your whole body.

Impulsively, you put your arms around him and for the first time, feel the softness of his lips against your own. Lemiel's lips meet yours, tentatively at first, then hungrily, and you think that you could melt into him because nothing has ever, ever felt so _right_.

* * *

Of course, as you later find out, no gift is free. Your gift, wrapped in brown paper and knotted clumsily with string, is also accompanied by a thick sheath of papers. At first, the romantic in you thinks that they're love letters; it's only when you stop to read them that you realise Lemiel has given you _homework_.

More specifically: a series of questions, asking what you liked best about your music box, and what you think he can improve on.

"I can't believe this," You mumble, even as you dig about in your desk drawers for a quill.

Behind you, Tetia tries in vain to muffle her giggles.

* * *

You know that you're well on your way to a typical hot and humid summer when the storms over the royal capital increase in their intensity.

The music box does its intended job of keeping the piercing fear at bay, but you've found that it can't compare to being in the company of its maker.

As absorbed in his work as he is, Lemiel never fails to make time for you whenever he hears the familiar striking of your knuckles against the wood of his room door. It's better this way, you think. With your paralyzing fear of storms,

Closing your eyes, you put your head on his chest. You can hear his heart beating. He wraps you to him, his embrace warm and solid, and you feel like you can't get close enough to him. It feels natural, right, as if the change in your relationship is as simple as sliding into new clothes.

* * *

He sits at the desk in his bedroom, brow adorably furrowed as he stares at the spherical object in front of him, apparently willing it do something for him through mental determination alone. His quarters have a workshop, you know, but unpacked boxes currently fill it, making this room the combination office-bedroom. All his essentials in one place. If his bedroom had come with an attached bathroom, he would have probably never emerged.

"Can you give me another hour?" Lemiel asks absently when he realizes that you've walked in, not looking at you. "I've almost got this."

It's a moot request. Even if you aren't willing to give him another hour, you know all too well that Lemiel would have kept writing. Mountains move more easily than Lemiel when he's particularly engrossed in work. Happily accommodating, you press a kiss to his cheek and wander off to the workshop to find something to read. Sifting through those boxes made it difficult, however. By the time you've emptied out several of them, you decided that you might as well just sort out the mess on your own.

You unpack all the boxes and sort them into categories, and that alone is a time-consuming process. Looking up at one point, you realize that almost three hours have passed. You stand up, stretch, and return to the bedroom.

"Hey," You say, gently. "It's been an hour. More than an hour, in fact."

Neon green smoke is billowing from the sphere now, and you stare at it furtively. You hope this means that the room won't be engulfed in flames.

You place your cold hands on the back of his neck. Lemiel jumps. He's taken to using his light magic to warm your fingers when they feel too cold for his liking, pressing kisses to your work-roughened fingers in a tender show of affection.

"Hey!"

"You need food, or you're going to pass out."

"Wouldn't be the first time," Lemiel says. His eyes stray, threatening to return to his project, but you make a muffled sound of protest, your fingers gliding to his cheek, sifting through strands of fine blond hair. "Just one more hour."

"I gave you your hour! Can you tear yourself away long enough to go get food?"

It turns out that he can't, not even when you pull out the puppy dog eyes and the pouting lower lip. Disappointed, you end up making a quick trip to the kitchens, bringing back sandwiches and fresh fruit, which you set upon his desk with stern instructions to eat.

Knowing that his neglect is for the greater good, you return to your book sorting after your own quick dinner, finishing your cataloging and shelving job at around two in the morning. All the books have homes on either the workshop or bedroom shelves, and are organized in alphabetical order.

In the bedroom, Lemiel is still tinkering away, his features backlit by the faint glow of the desk lamp. Kissing his cheek once more, you fall asleep in his bed, exhausted.

You wake hours later to the sensation of fingers threading themselves through your hair. "Morning," You murmur drowsily, trying to pull Lemiel into bed with you. "What time is it?"

"Early." He leans over you and plants a kiss on your eyelids, feather light. Morning sunlight makes his hair appear to be made of spun gold. He regards you fondly, his lips pulled up into a sweet, sunny smile.

"You put my books away. All of them."

"You were busy. I didn't mind."

He curls up beside you, your legs tangling together. You huff out a contented sigh, resting your head in the crook of his neck. "I'll make it up to you."

"Will I have to do another survey?"

"Maybe next time."

"What do you have in mind?" You ask, stretching upwards to kiss him on the lips.

"You'll see." His words are laced with an unspoken promise.


	2. you taught me the courage of stars before you left

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He's given you delicately handcrafted sunflowers, the glowing charms dangling from bracelets or earrings, but none of them can compare to the real thing; a garden of sunflowers he's planted just for you.

Lemiel has been occupied lately.

He's actually been leaving his room, stepping out for a breath of fresh air and sunlight, usually in the company of his sister, and while you would normally take this as a sign of good fortune, he's been returning to his chambers late at night, and is usually asleep by the time you visit his chambers. Loathe to disturb him when he so clearly needs the rest, you find yourself returning to your own chambers, with only your music box for company.

The court is abuzz with fresh gossip; many of the lords and ladies speculate that he's finally found someone to court. Lemiel's parents seem to buy into the rumors as well, and on the rare occasion you've passed his father in the hallways, he's expressed unabashed joy that his son is taking steps to secure the future of the kingdom. You've never been one to rely on baseless rumors and gossip; more than that, the memory of Lemiel's mouth on yours still lingers, and though you know Lemiel would never betray you, your stomach clenches in worry.

The rumors creep into your nightmares and many of your waking thoughts. As you eat your breakfast, as you scrub your skin with sponges and oils, as you walk through the gray gardens of the palace; they weigh heavily on your shoulders, manifesting in your subdued demeanor and tired eyes.

It's not just him; something is different about Tetia.

Something small, something that you don't think anyone except the people closest to her would notice. She walks with an unfamiliar lightness, seeming almost ethereal in loose fitting chiton styled dresses. In the absence of Lemiel's company, you've been turning to her for comfort lately. It's almost as though she can see your insecurities and worries screaming, and she does her best to alleviate your distress.

Tetia's always been pretty, with bright eyes and soft red lips, and when she smiles, dimples prick her cheeks. She's practically glowing when she tells you that she's met someone, and tells you that he's called Licht. A prince, right out from a fairy tale. She's giddy and bright-eyed, going over every moment of their time together in such fine detail that you could swear you were there yourself.

"I'd like to meet him," You say at last when she's done gushing over her love; except you _really_ don't. You've never been one for social events, whenever you can be coaxed into attending balls, you spend most of the time lingering by the walls like a wallflower; just _thinking_ of meeting a stranger has your stomach twisting itself into knots.

Tetia directs the full force of her smile onto you. "You'll get to meet him soon, I promise!"

* * *

Everyone knows.

Nothing can ever be hidden in court for long, no matter how careful the two of you are. Some days later, through the whispering of the servants, her own parents come to know the reason for the spring in her step, the roses filling her cheeks. Her mother weeps and wails; her father rages and yells, but in the face of their fury, Tetia is calm and unflinching, drawing strength from her brother standing by her side. She tells them what she's told you; that she loves Licht, and she wants to marry him. She's pregnant with his child, and she would like her child to meet his grandparents.

When at last her parents leave the room, Tetia almost collapses into a chair. You catch Lemiel's eye and pause. The small distance feels cramped with unspoken promises and things unsaid. You can't stop drinking him in. You feel like you haven't seen his blond curls and sky-blue eyes in ages.

But you drop your eyes and push your feelings aside, because Tetia needs you now. She's the first friend you've made at court, a friendship which hadn't been borne through a sense of obligation, and you're not about to let her go through this alone.

"Tetia," You tell her, reaching out and clasping her cool hands. They seem to match yours in temperature. "Do whatever you think is right. I'll support you all the way."

* * *

Lemiel's door is unlocked when you arrive, and you walk inside. You walk up to him and wrap your arms around his waist, resting your head against his back.

"Lemiel?"

" **[ NAME ]**. I'm sorry I haven't been around lately."

"Don't be." You tell him, and you mean it. "I think I know why you were so occupied now. I'm sorry I didn't realize sooner."

"That's on me for not telling you. I'm sorry." He turns around so that you're facing him, and you rest your cheek against his chest. "Can you forgive me?"

"I love you," You murmur, astonished when the words just slip out. And you realize then just how much you really mean them. Inhaling deeply, Lemiel holds you even tighter, and you feel the love pouring off of him, even with no spoken declaration. "Talk to me next time. I might be able to help."

"I will." His sigh ruffles the hair on the top of your head. "I promise."

* * *

Tetia's stomach grows and swells.

It's become impossible to hide her belly – not that she would ever want to. She's always been the darling of the realm, and not even her sudden pregnancy can take away from her popularity; messenger boys are forever begging entry to her chambers with gifts for her, for her apparently unknown husband, and for her unborn baby. Some of the courtiers have begun to shun her company, and it's on a resigned sigh that she tells you her parents still aren't speaking to her; but there's almost an air of peace and contentment about her. She's taking frequent day trips to visit Licht, and you bask in her company during the times she's at the palace, making sure that she isn't too lonely.

"You're rather far along now," You comment, flipping open your grimoire and casting a spell. There's a thrum beneath your skin, working down all the way to your toes. Delicate green vines wind themselves around Tetia's calves and ankles, and you hear her audible sigh of relief. "Does Licht know?"

"He does! You wouldn't believe how happy he is."

"I can bet."

"Are you free tomorrow? There's going to be a party at the village, and you'll be able to meet everyone then!"

"I don't think –" You hesitate. As promised, Lemiel has told you everything. You know about the other race, the elves who have been blessed with mana. You know how he's making more magic tools, and with the help of the elves, his dream of a peaceful kingdom, of coexistence, is finally becoming a reality. "– I don't think that I'd be welcome –"

"They'd love to meet you. Lemiel's told them all about you."

You can feel the blood rushing to your cheeks. But you can't deny that there's a warm pleasure sliding through you as well.

* * *

When Lemiel comes to your chambers to collect you, he finds you paying homage to the toilet, offering up your breakfast and lunch.

" **[ NAME ]**? What's wrong?"

You can't answer him yet. Lemiel holds you anxiously, keeping your hair out of your face, waiting patiently until you can breathe again.

"Are you alright?" Lemiel's voice is strained.

"Probably just nerves." You mumble, struggling to get up so that you can rinse your mouth out. He helps you up gently, never once complaining at the slowness of your pace. "Give – Give me a minute."

 _He's stronger than he looks,_ you think dazedly, as Lemiel swings you up into his arms and sets you down gently on the bed.

He puts a warm hand on your forehead. It feels nice. "How do you feel now?"

You think about it for a moment. The nausea has passed as suddenly as it has come, and you feel like you always do on any other average morning. "I'm okay. Really. Don't worry about me."

An hour later, you're held tightly in Lemiel's arms, watching as the towns below fly by at deadly speeds. The cool air whips against your face and burns your arms. Bile scorches the back of your throat; you clap a hand to your mouth, praying that you won't throw up.

"Stopstopstop!"

When Lemiel complies, you practically rip yourself out of his arms and hunch over on all fours, expelling the contents of your stomach onto the ground.

* * *

The sounds of the party drift forward to you from the village that squats at the edge of a lake. With each step, your senses are assailed by sight, scent and sound. The soft flute music soothes your senses, wrapping around you like a cool silk shawl. A long table has been set up, with a vase of sunflowers taking pride of place. You look at them longingly, recalling how the Forbidden Realm had fields full of them, and how your house had been filled with the bright yellow blooms. The table is laid with at least twenty mouthwatering dishes. There are slices of pale purple melon, freshly baked bread, noodles in a green sauce, a hot grain stew, bright orange fruit preserves and batter cakes.

"Lemiel!"

"Lemiel's here!"

Immediately, Lemiel is swarmed by a crowd of children, grappling onto his limbs and nearly bowling him over. They holler out greetings, and though Lemiel returns them all, it's drowned out in the high-pitched screaming.

"Is Tetia here?" Lemiel asks mildly, unclasping the tiniest one who threatens to rip his left leg off with no more than a sunny smile.

"Yes!"

"Everyone's been waiting for you!"

An older girl with soft pink pigtails hurries forwards, shooing the rest of the children away. "Hi," She says boldly, once she catches sight of your face, magnolia white with fear and uncertainty. "Who are you?" Before you can answer, she sprints out of earshot, yelling, "Lemiel brought a girl with him!"

Lemiel makes a face. "That's Fhana. I imagine she's gone to find Licht and Tetia."

You have to bite back your laughter. "You certainly seem popular. I'm almost jealous."

The squeeze Lemiel gives you then is comforting. The party is in full swing as the two of you venture deeper into the village. Lemiel pauses here and there, calling out greetings and introducing you in the same breath. You're regarded curiously, and with wide eyes, but received just as warmly as him. The python coiling around your throat loosens ever so slightly; you find that it's becoming easier to draw a breath. Lemiel stops to ruffle the hair of a flaxen-haired elf, much to the elf's chagrin. The elf, now known to you as Patolli, wears the affronted dignity only one on the edge of adolescence can have. Fhana returns shortly thereafter with a tall, blond man in tow. Tetia is by his side, their arms linked. It doesn't take much for you to guess that this is Licht.

"See? See?" Fhana says, deliberately drawing the words out. "I _told_ you Lemiel brought a girl!"

"I can see that, Fhana," Licht says, drawing Lemiel into a quick, one-armed hug. He looks happy, but exhausted. You can understand why. "This must be **[ NAME ]**."

You look to Lemiel for support. As always, he's your source of comfort, smiling at you and squeezing your hand once again. You manage to keep your voice level, even though your stomach is churning in discomfort once again. "You must be Licht. It's nice to finally meet you."

"Likewise. Welcome to the chaos, **[ NAME ]**." Licht says, glancing around at all the children, and even some of the older elves, running amok in wild abandon. "I do hope we haven't scared you off."

You manage a soft reply, despite your closing throat. "Not yet, no."

The party resembles an informal picnic under the stars, with cloths spread out onto the grass. The adults are much easier to manage; some of them clutch onto stemmed glasses of wine as they stream over in droves, and though you're offered a glass, you decline, electing to drink fresh juice instead. Licht and Tetia surprise you by managing to control the herd of screaming, jumping children that somehow seem to be swarming everywhere at once, handling them all with efficient good nature while Lemiel and you do little more than watch, occasionally fielding random questions tossed your way. The entire experience stuns you as a bystander; you can hardly imagine coping with it on a regular basis.

At one point, catching his breath, Licht sees you alone and strikes up a conversation.

"I'm glad you could come," He says. "Lemiel's told me so much about you."

"Thank you for having me. It's been nice to leave the palace for a while. You wouldn't believe how stifling it gets there."

"I can only imagine. It's nice to see him with someone." Licht nods at Lemiel. "He'll spend far too much time in his rooms if you leave him alone for too long."

"I know."

"He's lucky to have you."

"I'd like to think that I'm lucky to have him, actually."

As the party winds down and guests begin to disperse back to their homes, Lemiel's fan club beseeches him to read stories, to which he obliges. You follow him, Tetia, and a small group of stragglers, while some of the adults attempt to clean up and return the village to its previous normalcy. Lemiel's voice is smooth, almost compelling as he weaves a tale of chocolate rivers and candy fairies, and you curl up next to him, content to just listen and watch. You're therefore very surprised and startled when Eclat's small form scrambles up and sits on your lap.

One of the youngest in the village, she tends to speak very little; all through the evening, she had been clinging to her older brother. Now, she studies you with her globes of eyes, touches your side braid with interest, and then snuggles into you to listen to Lemiel. You wonder if she understands any of what he's saying. Regardless, she's soft and warm and smells like little girl. Unconsciously, you run your fingers through the fine, light brown strands of hair and soon begin weaving it into a braid similar to yours.

"When will you be coming back?" Eclat asks quietly, to your surprise.

Next to you, Lemiel looks up from his book and smiles.

* * *

It's as you're lying in bed with Lemiel, feeling a pleasant soreness in your body, that he murmurs in your ear: "Eclat really liked you."

"She's sweet. But I wouldn't want children."

"Why not?"

"I wouldn't want to raise them here," You clarify, your face still tucked into the crook of his neck. "Not at court. Somewhere in the Forbidden Realm, or maybe even by the sea. A little cottage, with sunflowers in the garden."

You can imagine it now. A life where a crown doesn't weigh heavy on your head. A simple life with you and Lemiel aren't bound by duty, where you're not closely scrutinized by the court. A simple life where the two of you have blond haired, blue-eyed children. It would be an easier life in so many ways. The thought makes you smile.

"Speaking of sunflowers –" Lemiel slips out of bed, but returns before you can complain. A a gift bag exploding with colored tissues and ribbons is handed to you; you stare at him quizzically. "This is for you."

"Me?"

Still smiling quizzically, you open the gift with care. Nestled away in the bag is a simple necklace of gold, with tiny pecks and delicate ridges. A sunflower charm hangs from the chain, glowing with an internal light. A wave of familiar energy washes over you – Lemiel's sealed more of his magic into the charm – and it pulses like a second heartbeat in your hands.

"Thank you," You tell him, brushing your lips softly over his.

The gift is, for the moment, quickly set aside on the nightstand, and everything slips away, until all that matters are mouths and tongues and hands and shared breaths that are never quite enough.

* * *

A simple ring of gold now glitters upon Tetia's finger.

Neither you nor Lemiel were there when Licht proposed, but Tetia had burst into Lemiel's quarters – she's beginning to _waddle_ now, like all pregnant women do, but you don't have the heart to tell her that – with a smile that could have lit up a room. Thankfully, the two of you weren't doing much more than curling up in bed together with a new book. Her arrival had been accompanied with the glitter of her new ring, as well as an announcement; she and Licht are getting married.

You and Lemiel might be the only two in the palace who are truly happy for her.

The King's fury knows no bounds when the news reaches his ears. Red-faced and huffing with fury, he turns away and refuses to speak to Tetia. The Queen, too, is full of shocked disapproval. Unable to look at her only daughter; she keeps a handkerchief pressed to her mouth, her body shaking with dry sobs.

"They'll come around," Lemiel tells his sister, optimistic as he guides her back to her own chambers. "Don't worry."

Tetia's face is shockingly pale, but there's a tight, determined set to her shoulders that tells you she's still intent on going through with the marriage.

"I'll make you some tea," You tell her instead, trying to take her mind off things, even if only for a little while.

* * *

Tea has been set up at one of the wrought iron tables on the public sun pavilion. Striped white and violet silk awnings hang over the large veranda, flapping in the wind while white gold candles lend warmth to each table. Autumn is fast approaching, and the sun is becoming an increasingly rare sight, but today, the sun shines like French vanilla ice cream.

The servants had brought out coffee, but the smell of it had threatened your gag reflex; at Tetia's hasty directions, the pot had been whisked away quickly and replaced with a fresh pot of mint tea.

You focus on breathing in the cleansing steam from your cup, past the still-lingering nausea which threatens to overwhelm you. "You're letting _Lemiel_ dress you for the wedding?"

Tetia pouts. "He's just going to the dressmaker's with me. You know he thinks of himself as being fashionable, and when he asked, I couldn't turn him down. That's all."

"That's all." You repeat incredulously. _"Right."_

"He's made you a dress too, hasn't he?" You nod at her query, remembering the champagne silk dress, with a strapless bustier bodice, an open back, and a tiered skirt that ends a few inches above your knees. "Why don't you wear that to the wedding?"

"It's the same color as your wedding gown! I'm not wearing it on your special day!"

* * *

Despite your misgivings, Lemiel, the self-proclaimed fashionista that he is, ends up accompanying the two of you to the dress makers. Tetia has somehow strong-armed you and Fhana into becoming bridesmaids, and though you've warned her that there is a strong possibility you might puke from nerves as you accompany her down the aisle, she'd laughed off your warning.

Lemiel, you find, is surprisingly bossy when the matter of fashion is concerned. Even Tetia seems taken aback. You have to tamper down the urge to tell you, _'I told you so'_. The seamstresses there soon learn who is in charge and back off with their recommendations, simply fetching the dresses that Lemiel indicates. It's with a critical eye that Lemiel studies each one Tetia tries on, keeping his standards high. Tetia's picked out about eight dressmakers, and with so many of them to choose from, you figure that the three of you could afford to be picky.

"That one's good," Lemiel says at the third store. It's made of white silk satin, draping over both her shoulders in wide swaths. The dress is corded with a golden chain at the waist, with a princess skirt with folds of voluminous fabric.

The eager seamstress jots down the style number, and then Tetia starts to turn around to try on the rest of the dresses waiting in her dressing room. As she does, a dress on a mannequin catches her eye.

" **[ NAME ]** ," Tetia says. Her color is high and her face glows happily. "Why don't you try that one on?"

You follow her gaze. The dress in question is slinky and sexy, floor-length saffron yellow charmeuse with straps that tie around the neck.

"You want that as a bridesmaid dress?"

"It would look great on you. Everything looks great on you," Tetia says. "Try it on. Please?"

Before you can protest further, the seamstress has already fetched one from the rack.

Tetia's right. The dress does look good on her, and when you step out, Tetia takes it as a done deal that you'd buy it – no, offers to buy it for you, even – and insists that you show it to Lemiel, too. Lemiel's smile is a sweet, tender thing, and his voice is even softer when he tells you that you look beautiful.

You're returning to the dressing room to change back into your simpler dress when your eye catches something. It's a bridal dress. Thousands of chiffon rosettes, hand-stitched together to create an ethereal, cloudlike elegance. You stare at it.

Before you know it, you're back in the dressing room again, wearing the ivory dress. The dress is beautiful, and you fill it out beautifully. As you stare into the mirror, you can almost see yourself with a bouquet of sunflowers in your hands and a gauzy veil on your head. With well-wishers and joy, the giddy faith and hope of a beautiful life together.

" **[ NAME ]**? Are you done?"

Lemiel.

Before you can talk yourself into staying put, you open the door of the dressing room, and for a heartbeat, Lemiel looks at you, clad in ivory rosettes, and his breath hitches. In response, your heart races, its speed stealing your breath and leaving you dizzy.

"How do I look?" You ask eventually, your throat dry.

"You look beautiful," He tells you again, quiet and sincere. The adoration in his eyes is clearly directed at you. "You should buy this dress too."

You walk out with two dresses, one of saffron yellow and one of ivory.

* * *

Lemiel's last gift to you is a garden.

He's given you delicately handcrafted sunflowers, the glowing charms dangling from bracelets or earrings, but none of them can compare to the real thing; a garden of sunflowers he's planted just for you. Seeds donated by the elves, planted into the dirt, growing strong and tall with his light magic, the yellow blooms gravitating towards Lumiere whenever he so much as ventures near them.

In the palace, the immaculately groomed gardens have pathways of square gray stones. Few trees break through the hard floor to provide skeletal fingers of shade. Where there once was no color, the grey garden seems to have gained a new life.

At night you sleep close to Lemiel, pressed up against his side. You coax him into putting down his books, into resting with you. You can't sleep alone anymore, and his breathing, his warm body are familiar comforts. You look at his face, inhale the scent of his skin, know that this is love, and wish that these peace-filled days would never end.

* * *

The next party you accompany Lemiel to is a quiet affair, a sharp contrast to the last party you've been to at the very same village.

Tucked into the foothills and blanketed by forests, the elven village is sequestered away from prying eyes. Your arrival is greeted by the languid sounds of cows being milked, the incessant clucking of chickens rooting about in the ground for seeds, and the soft footfalls of villagers going about their day, occasionally punctuated by the screams of children. The thatch-roofed stone huts are bathed in late afternoon sunlight by the time you and Lemiel arrive, walking hand-in-hand.

Where the last party was chaos, this one is the epitome of peace. A long table has been set out, of freshly scrubbed pine wood. On the table is a glass vase with fresh-cut sunflowers at peak bloom, and eleven place settings. Freshly squeezed juice, bitter greens with tomatoes and apples, grilled fish sliced as thin as paper, vegetable stew and hot grains, cheese that melts on your tongue, served with sweet blue grapes.

"Here come the two lovebirds now!" Fhana sings out, staring gleefully at your linked hands. "The two of you are late!"

"Fhana, let them be," Licht says, gently chiding from his place at the head of the table. Beside him, Tetia waves. "Welcome, Lemiel, **[ NAME ]**. Won't the two of you join us? We've been waiting for you."

"Sorry, Fhana," Lemiel apologizes, his bright blue eyes darting over to her in amusement. "We had other affairs to take care of first."

"Sorry we kept you waiting," You add, smiling as Lemiel pulls your chair out for you.

Though your hands are kept tucked away into the folds of your skirt, the weight of the ring resting there is reassuring. A wedding [band](https://cdn.kataoka-jewelry.com/en/images/thumbnails/380/235/detailed/11/ka0058aa_RGLL_12@2x.jpg) of brilliant rose gold, with the diamond's facets cut to resemble a flower.

"I can't wait for the wedding tomorrow!" Fhana chatters away excitedly, humming in excitement as she stuffs a mouthful of stew into her mouth. "We'll both be bridesmaids, **[ NAME ]**! Isn't it exciting?"

Her joy is contagious. You sort through your food with a light heart, grinning. "I can't wait."

* * *

As if turns out, you don't make it to the wedding.

The nausea is new. You'd woken up at five in the morning, and had ripped yourself out of Lemiel's arms to run to the toilet to throw up. You'd only just made it to the toilet in time before you'd vomited your dinner into the bowl in a violent and noisy gush. You retched again, and again.

Lemiel, as always, helps by holding your hair out of your face. You don't know what you'd have done without him. " **[ NAME ]** , you should see the healers. This has been happening far too frequently."

Your throat is raw. You try to catch Tetia's eye, but you have to retch again, bending back over the bowl. There's nothing left in your stomach, but it doesn't seem to care. "I'm really sorry, Tetia."

"Don't apologize, please. Your health comes first." Tetia looks at you in concern, her brow puckering. "Has this been going on for long?"

"It's just _nerves_." Privately, you think that she should be heading over to the village, giddy with joy and aflutter with nerves as she dresses for the wedding, not worrying over you. "There's no reason for me to see the healers."

"That's what you said the last time." Lemiel points out. The nausea is abating somewhat, so you struggle to your feet, staggering over to the washbasin unsteadily. Lemiel supports you all the while, as you rinse the taste of sickness from your mouth and clean your hands. "Just go and get checked over, please. Get medicine at least."

You bite down on your lip, but find yourself giving in anyway, if only so you won't have to see how his face is pinched in worry. "Tetia, you should go, or you'll be late. I'll be fine."

"I'll bring her with me later." Lemiel adds.

You reach out to take her hand. "I'll see you later, Tetia."

She smiles, relieved. "I'll throw you my bouquet later – not that you'll need it."

Tetia nods in the direction of your hand, where the ring still glitters, and you find that some color has rushed back into your pale cheeks. She _knows_.

"Aren't you going with her?" You ask, as Lemiel helps you over to the bed. You lower your head onto his shoulder, nuzzling into his neck.

You can feel him shake his head. "Father's summoned me for a meeting, so I'll be late to the wedding. I'll come and fetch you later, if you're well enough to go."

You give him one last kiss before he has to leave.

It's the last time you see Lemiel and Tetia.


	3. ;; light carries on endlessly ;;

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He turns his head so that his eyes meet yours. His smile is a soft, fragile thing; as if he'd known all along what you hadn't, and had been waiting for you to realize it.

You must pass out after that long and drawn out fight with the devil. You don't remember escaping; you just remember vague and faraway voices, arms scooping you up and spiriting you to safety. For a moment, when you awaken, you cheek pressed to a piece of concrete, you forget everything; but as soon as you move, a lightning bolt of pain shoots through you and you let out a pained cry.

"You shouldn't move around too much," A cold arm of stone supports you, helping you to move slowly and painfully into a sitting position. "Your injuries are quite severe."

The battle had been a whirlwind of activity, and in the flurry of chaos, you hadn't managed to get a close look at the First Wizard King. Now, in the early golden light of dawn, you find yourself staring at him. Even though part of his features have been turned into rough grey stone, your resemblance to him is so clear that it hits you like a knife to the gut.

Your family's secret, passed down from mother to daughter, from father to son over the many generations – that one of your earliest ancestors had been married to royalty, that she had loved him and he had loved her in return; but after his untimely demise, she had retreated into the Forsaken Realm, where she had remained until her early death.

 _She died of a broken heart,_ your mother had told you, a faraway look in her eyes. She had worn a sunflower necklace around her neck, the charm seemingly lit from within by a mysterious golden light, and when you had been accepted into the Royal Knights, it had been passed on to you; a Magic Knight from the Forsaken Realm, who, curiously, had been blessed with a four-leafed grimoire and the ability to use Light Magic.

You remember the early days when you had entered the Royal Capital; looking hard at every noble you passed, searching fleeting faces for similarities to your own, but finding nothing conclusive. You remember visiting the Golden Dawn's extensive library, flipping through dusty old tomes, desperate to unearth your family's lost history. The First Wizard King, Lemiel Silvamillion Clover, as he was portrayed in books and paintings, had the most beautiful smile, and the clearest blue eyes. You'd remembered thinking that his nose had the same slope, and his hair curled around his ears in the same way that yours did, but you'd thought that you were foolishly grasping at straws.

More than that, you resembled your ancestor far too much, or so your mother claimed – the one who had died of a broken heart, the one you'd been named after. Your namesake is a mystery to you. There were barely any photos of her; all anyone could tell you was that she was very kind, and very sad, and that she had loved sunflowers, planting a garden filled with them in the family home. That was before, when your eyes were childishly wide and shapeless, impossible to place on anyone's face. Now, you see your own eyes in Lemiel's face, bright and framed with heavy lashes.

He turns his head so that his eyes meet yours. His smile is a soft, fragile thing; as if he'd known all along what you hadn't, and had been waiting for you to realize it. There is something familiar in his gaze that wrings your heart in your chest and makes it impossible to breathe. There is no doubt left in you anymore. The two of you are related.

Tears sting at your eyes, stop up your throat, wrap around your neck as if they're trying to choke you. "Hey . . . Were you . . .? Are we . . .?"

Lemiel smiles, and it's all the answer you need. His body is crumbling away into ash, like gold-leaf on a cheap antique – just flaking away. Mimosa shakes her head sadly at you; there's nothing that she can do. Lemiel reaches a delicate hand forwards, and you wrap your fingers around his, dismayed to find that all the warmth is leeching out of his hand.

"I never did get your name." He says softly.

It takes you a few seconds for you to respond. You have to cough before you can answer him. "I'm **[ NAME ]**."

"That's a beautiful necklace, **[ NAME ]** ," He says, wistful and sad and longing, all at once. "I made it myself, you know. It was supposed to be a courting gift."

Tears burn hot on your cheeks, flowing freely now. "Did you love her?"

"I did. I do." Lemiel says. His eyes are very far away, and his voice is rough. "I've kept her waiting for far too long, I think. You look like her. Sound like her, too. I'm glad I got to meet you, **[ NAME ]**."

You're still holding onto his hand when he crumbles away in the first light of dawn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end of the story - thank you for reading! Please continue to read my other Black Clover stories!


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